"Great," he says. "I'll be in touch."
I get another C- on my paper on happiness. It's all marked up, more red marring the pristine white paper than black ink from my words. Santino has critiqued every line to the point that I can practically hear his ridiculing voice when I read his comments. On the very top, in all capitals, underlined half a dozen times, is the word PRETENTIOUS.
Pretentious. Me.
The man with a flashy pointer and a stick up his ass called me pretentious. I'm stunned. I'm pissed. I'm upset on the trek home from class, so furious that Melody doesn't even try to speak to me as she clutches her paper on Disney World.
She got a B+.
I caught a peek at it when he handed them back, seeing very little red scribbled on hers, so little, in fact, that it made what was written up top stand out even more.
REFRESHING.
I quote Walt Disney in class and am mocked. She writes an entire paper on the subject and he calls it refreshing.
As if I couldn't be any more dismayed.
I stride right into the building, swiping my student ID for entrance. Melody's right behind me, treading lightly. We walk to the elevator and cram inside when my phone starts to ring. I consider not even looking at it, in no mood to talk to my mother, but I pull it out to silence it. I just happen to catch sight of the screen right before I hit the button and stall, seeing Naz's name.
"Hello?" I answer hesitantly.
"Are you busy?"
"No."
"Good, because there's a car waiting downstairs to take you to Fifth Avenue."
"Right now?"
"Yes, right now," he says. "You need a dress, don't you?"
"Uh, yeah."
"And take your roommate," he says. "I seem to remember owing her a dress, too."
I don't know what to say, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't wait for me to respond, anyway. I lean against the side of the elevator, waiting, as we seem to stop on every floor on the way up. By the time we reach thirteen, Melody and I are the only ones left. It dings and Melody starts to step out, but I grab ahold of her and pull her back in, pressing the lobby button.
Her brow furrows as she looks at me. "Where are we going?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Fifth Avenue somewhere."
"Why?"
"I guess we're going shopping."
She looks torn between confusion and excitement, like she wants to jump up and down but she has no clue how the hell we can be going shopping when we've been living off of noodles all week. I don't explain, still stewing on my grade, as she crams her paper in her bag. She cuts her eyes at me, frowning as I watch. "I don't know why that man has a hard-on for you. You're a lot better at that crap than me. You should be getting all A's."
I just shrug, having no idea how to respond, as we stride out of the elevator and make our way outside. I notice it then, parked along the curb right in front of the dorm: a sleek black town car with a man leaning against the side of it, waiting. He glances up, pushing away from the car when he sees us. "Miss Reed?"
"Yes."
He smiles politely, opening the door for us to get in. I hesitate, but Melody pushes right past me, climbing in the back seat. I join her, sighing as the driver shuts the door and climbs in up front. Melody is chatting non-stop on the drive, excited, even though she has no idea where we're going or what we're doing.
Hell, I don't know myself.
All I know is I need a dress.
The driver takes us to Fifth Avenue in Midtown West and drops us off in front of an upscale boutique. I stand there along the curb, staring through the glass doors, as the town car pulls away, disappearing into traffic and leaving us there. Melody's wide eyes regard the store with much the same excitement as in the car, but even she seems a little hesitant.
"What now?" she asks.
"I guess we go in."
She shrugs, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the boutique. It's swathed in a soft glow, faint classical music playing. The store is arranged by color and scheme, with sections of different designers, the clothes along the walls while the middle section is sprinkled with furniture like we're in someone's home.
It's not like the stores I'm used to, with racks upon racks crammed together of every size imaginable, mass-produced and distributed to anyone who wants it. These are one-of-a-kinds, where you hold your breath and pick a dress and hope like hell you can squeeze into it.
I pause right inside the door, glancing around, as the saleswoman appears. She struts, poised, eyebrows raised like she's potentially approaching feral animals and she thinks we might bite. I'm about to blurt out that this is a mistake, that I'm most definitely in the wrong place, when she says my name. "Karissa Reed?"
I gape at her. "Yes."
"Mr. Vitale said he would be sending you by this afternoon," she says, giving me what I surmise is her warmest smile, although it still looks quite frigid. "He left instructions, evening attire for you and a dress for your friend… to replace one that was damaged?"
"A damaged dress?" Melody glances at me. "You mean my sweater dress? The black one?"
I nod slowly. "Yeah, we kind of… I mean, he kind of…"
She holds her hands up to stop me. "Enough said."
I laugh nervously, glancing back at the saleswoman as she eyes us, her gaze even icier than just a moment ago. She clears her throat dramatically, waving around the store. "Well, help yourselves to anything in the store. The dressing rooms are through there." She points toward the back. "I'm here to help if you need it."
"Thanks," I mumble as she walks away. I turn to Melody, about to say something—anything—when she lets out a squeal and drops her school bag in the middle of the store, grabbing my hand and yanking me over to a rack of clothes.
She's thrown into fast-forward as she descends upon the store, picking up dresses and holding them up to herself, running to the closest mirror and twirling around. The girl is a shopping machine. I scan some racks, noticing not a single piece has a price tag. "How am I supposed to know how much they cost?"
That icy voice clears nearby. "Mr. Vitale said you're to pick out what you like, not what you think you can have."
"That sounds like him," I mutter, picking up a sleek black dress and surveying it before sticking it back on the rack. I doubt I could squeeze a thigh into the thing.
Melody accumulates a dozen dresses she wants to try on, forcing a few on me along the way. I humor her, trying them on before pushing them aside. They're flashy and revealing, nothing I would be caught dead in. I find a simple black dress in my size and pick it up, heading toward the dressing rooms with it when another catches my eye. It's on a rack of pink and purple dresses, but the color falls somewhere in between, like raspberry.